


Catch and dismantle

by ohmylords



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22831045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmylords/pseuds/ohmylords
Summary: Modern Era AU: Lan Fan wants to find the case which makes her career. Ling wants to help.Or an investigative journalist and a bored rich boy meet online. Based on this post: https://www.reddit.com/r/UnethicalLifeProTips/comments/9gccab/ulpt_send_a_wedding_invite_to_every_billionaire/
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang, Lan Fan/Ling Yao, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	1. Prologue: No nothing simple 'bout the simple days

_July 2 2018_

There is a saying their group has – _all good ideas come after Roy Mustang has 5 whiskies._

Lan Fan has never agreed with it. Mustang (she has never been comfortable calling him Roy. Roy sounds like a fat French kid’s name and Mustang is… not French.) as brilliant as he is, becomes a right idiot once he gets drunk.

 _That’s whiskey number 3._ She thinks to herself, chewing on the already crumpled straw of her drink. The ice has diluted most of the gin and tonic, and droplets of condensation around the glass have soaked into her prune-like fingertips. Idly, she flicks some away.

“Anyway, Eddie-kins I’m so proud of you-” Mustang’s words are twisting across themselves. The formally clipped syllables collapsing into each other, pulling lazily into a drawl, fraying where they would usually be precise. She looks expectantly to Riza, who is smiling obligingly at him, her fingers twisting across her ring.

_Damn so no one is going to cut him off._

“- you’ve reached such great heights…”

_Goddamn. That’s low._

Mustang’s mouth is twisting into its usual smirk. And she can see Ed’s brows pulling into themselves.

“For such someone of such _small_ tender years, you’ve-”

Alphonse is smirking. Winry is biting back a smile behind her closed fist. Lan Fan does not even need to look at Ed to know that he is seething. She can literally hear his knuckles cracking into a fist when he slams his fist into the table.

“Fuck you, Mustang! I’ll fucking murder you, you goddamn bastard.”

_There it is._

“- done so much.” Mustang looks innocently at him, lips curving even wider. “Congratulations, Dr Elric, may your research revolutionise the world,” he tilts his glass towards Ed, the amber liquid swirling around precariously near the edge. “Cheers.”

“Cheers!”

Winry kisses him on the cheek. And Ed, looking somewhat mollified, slumps into the worn seat of their booth. Alphonse thumps his brother on the back. Lan Fan smiles into her drink, murmuring her congratulations.

Everything feels so different and the same, she marvels to herself. Here there are in the bar they’ve visited ever since she was a sophomore flashing fake IDs to the bartenders. And now, Edward Elric is Dr Edward Elric. Roy Mustang, former anarcho-communist, is a Finance Bro™. Winry is a damn software robotics engineer, who instead of mooching off Lan Fan’s eastern philosophy papers is creating some crazy software thing that involves some Big Hero 6 style robots for the army. Riza is an assistant district attorney, while Lan Fan – well Lan Fan will always just be Lan Fan.

“Speech. Speech. Speech.” The chant is started by Alphonse and soon everyone is joining in. Someone thumps on the table. Who, she’s not sure. So she does it too because she knows that even though Ed’s face is stained a syrupy Slurpy red, he wants to make an uncomfortable, short attempt at being grateful.

It’s Winry who jerks Ed to stand.

“Erh… Hi, you know me…” Ed has a sheepish hand on his neck, looking down at his feet and Lan Fan can’t help but smile at that. _He really hasn’t changed_ , she thinks. “Thanks you guys, for helping me in you know… everything-”

Alphonse whoops and she suppresses a laugh into her drink. The ice cubes have all melted and she can hardly taste the liquor in it.

“- Mustang, you’re still a dick but thanks for helping me talk to Dr Knox. Hawkeye, thanks for helping me look through the whole patents thing-”

Winry is beaming up at Ed, bright and radiant. There’s a sense of serene calm and pride that just bursts from her.

 _It’s been so easy for them_ , she thinks to herself. Two kids who skipped grades together meet in high school. One takes Physics. One takes Chemistry. And they grow up together and one works for the some bigshot company and one is going to become a professor. It’s the stuff Taylor Swift sings about and Lan Fan feels so incredibly disgustingly happy for them. It’s gross. Just absolutely perfectly beautiful but still gross.

“-Lan thanks for helping me track down Dr Marcoh, he’s an elusive fuck but he was super useful. Al, you’re my brother so thanks for that- ”

Alphonse lets out another whoop. A girl with dark hair and braids turns towards him, and the tattooed man she’s sitting with turn to look at him, confused and a tad irritated. Al’s smile widens as he catches her eye.

“And erh yeah – Winry, thanks for saying ye-”

It is as if everyone all chokes on their drinks together. And there is a bout of collective silence before Al and Mustang begin shouting.

“Wait what the fuc-”

“You guys are enga-”

_They’ve been together for ages._

Winry is still looking at Ed with stars in her eyes. And Lan Fan does not understand how anyone could see this as a surprise. _They fit. They fit so well._ She remembers walking into Winry’s room with Ed sprawled across the floor with chemistry textbooks circling around him, Winry sitting across him arguing about the mechanics fluid dynamics.

Alphonse and Mustang are still staring agape at them, pointing accusatory fingers. Lan Fan smiles absently to herself, chewing on her straw.

“Pay up Roy.” Everyone turns to Riza, who still smiling serenely, has her palm stretched open towards him.

“Goddamnit. I thought he’d do it next year.” Roy whines, sliding a twenty out of his pocket. “Fucking thought he wouldn’t have the balls to do it.” He leans heavily on to her shoulder, pouting. “Happy?”

Lan Fan can’t help but chuckle.

* * *

_It’s whiskey number 7._

She’s on her third drink now. Winry insisted. The mix of gin to tonic in this drink is a bit off – there’s too much gin and every sip she takes, her tongue is assaulted with the acrid taste of juniper. But there’s that feeling. The comforting lifting of weight off her shoulders just for a bit. And it makes her take another sip.

Winry has left. Something about having to wake up early to head to Georgia for some trials on the project she has nicknamed _Bae-Max_. Alphonse is talking to the pretty Chinese girl with braids he stunned earlier. The girl is smiling half moons at him while he’s grinning all teeth and earnestness and it charms her to the cockles of her half dead half tired heart. 

_Smooth Al. Damn smooth._

She leans her cheek on to her palm as Mustang talks about Finance Bros™ and their reptilian smiles and their iron grips on their underlings. The lights of the bar are dusky gold and they thrum comfortably like large stars. The Fourth of July streamers that are tethered to the ceiling remind her of the tails of shooting stars she tried catching as a child.

 _Focus._ Lan Fan forces herself to snap back to the conversation. _You’re not drunk. Focus._

“- Pershing Square more like Perishing Square.”

Ed starts a squabble about how Mustang is the ultimate Finance Bro™ because he sold out of his hippy dream. And Lan Fan watches. She’s always liked listening to them rant and gripe and rage at each other because Mustang is meant to be a senator with the glib smiles and outrageous things he can say with a straight earnest face and Ed is angry and small and it makes her laugh to see him worked up.

Her drink does not taste so bad when she takes another sip of it.

“So Lan,” She jerks up at the sound of her name and finds Riza looking at her expectantly. “What are you up to now?”

_Damn it._

“Oh…” she tucks a stray whisper of hair behind her ear, smoothing the wrinkles that mar the edge of her blouse “well WSJ just did a piece on the impact of Chinese investment in Nigeria and the impacts of environmental damage on pregnant women-”

“Damn Lan, you’re fucking amazing.” Ed’s jaw goes a little slack.

She feels the colour rising into her cheeks and she’s unsure if it’s the alcohol or the embarrassment.

“- oh no, I just translated the medical reports and company reports from Chinese and you know… did some editing here and there… you know… nothing big…” She bats her hand anxiously around and then silences herself with a large gulp of her drink.

“It’s still amazing Lan,” Riza firmly interjects. “You should be proud.”

There’s a look in Riza’s eye that looks like reproach and something that is a bit too warm. Lan Fan does not like it. She feels hot so incredibly uncomfortably warm despite sitting under the blasting air conditioning. And so she does what she does best - change the subject as quickly as she can.

“So wedding invites?” she offers, pushing the question towards Ed. Riza is giving her another of her odd looks and she wants to shrink herself small so that someone else can talk and she can listen and catalogue and laugh.

Ed takes the bait.

“Ah yes – well there’s Winry’s family, I guess. So Pinako. You guys, of course…” he ticks the people off his fingers. “Winry and Al will want me to invite Holenheim because… you know…” Ed trails off, his face contorted into a scowl.

“You know what’s fun,” Mustang interjects. And Lan Fan almost sighs with relief. They are clearly sticking to this topic. “You invite one of those billionair- what ow! Babe!” He shrieks undignified at the end, looking accusatorily at Riza whose elbow is dug into his ribs.

Riza rolls her eyes, her gaze now fixated on Mustang’s grinning face.

_Thank god._

“He’s been going on about this for forever.”

Ed and Lan Fan exchange confused looks as Riza gives one of her typical long-suffering sighs. There is a similar equivalent exchange of glances between her and Mustang – irritation in return for amusement.

“Roy saw a post on tumbl-” she says pointedly.

“Riza!” Roy petulantly shrieks. He turns to Lan Fan, who is hiding her bemused smirk behind her straw. “I was looking for home decoration ideas. You know…” He shoots an accusatory glare towards Riza. “For our shared home.”

There is another exaggerated eye roll from Riza who pushes her blonde hair behind her ears.

“So there was a tumblr post which Roy-”

Lan Fan’s smirk is bursting out the confines of her pressed lips.

“-saw which said that if you send a billionaire a note inviting them to your wedding, their assistant will just sent you a gift because billionaires know too many people and they don’t have enough time to go through who they _actually_ know.” There is something close to a sneer on Riza’s lip that is twisted with amusement.

Roy is grinning like a cat with cream and he impishly bats at her face.

 _He fucking loves this_. Lan Fan thinks to herself. _Man’s whipped._

“It’s a fucking brilliant idea.” Ed slams his fit on the table. He points an accusatory figure at Mustang. “You my man… I said you were a sell out but this bro is fucking amazing.”

Mustang nods.

“I know. Redistribution of wealth dude. Take from the rich and give to the poor.”

The boys lean out from their green vinyl seats and fist bump enthusiastically.

Riza rolls her eyes again as she takes a drink.

“You,” she gestures at Ed with her half-filled glass. “Are a PHD graduate with a lecturing post at Columbia. You are not by any goddamn measure poor.” Riza gives what Lan Fan calls her trial look, narrowed eyes and thinned lips, almost daring Ed to contradict her. Ed cowers into himself.

“And You.” Lan Fan continues in Riza’s stead at the giggling Roy. “Are wearing an Armani suit.” She grins at Roy. “Seriously, Armani? A bit too _noveau riche_ don’t you think?”

Ed’s eyes widen in surprise as he chokes back laughter. And Lan Fan can’t help the rush of pride at her wit, it rushes from her head through her chest and coils in her belly. She still feels warm but it’s the pleasant sort.

“Goddamn bro. You really got fucking owned by Lan.”

She grins and for a moment she feels golden just like the lights.

* * *

_July 17 2018_

Zheng Fu’s office smells like expensive coffee, leather and pine. Lan Fan knows that as much as he refuses to admit it, it’s the air diffuser and set of essential oils that she gifted him last Christmas. Fu may gripe about the new generation of millennials being soft and useless, he very much so enjoys the same things that he disparages.

The thought makes her bury her chuckle into a long cough as she looks up towards his pine desk, leg bouncing in time to an invisible metronome. 

Though close to seventy, Zheng Fu is one of the chief editors for the Wall Street Journal and reasonably spry, as he often likes to tell Lan Fan. Small and trim is probably the best way to describe the man. He keeps a neat little greying moustache that is somehow so uniformly grey, she swears he dyes it. And on days which are a tad bit sunny, he wears a fedora. It suits him, the old world Shanghai-1920s charm that her favourite Chinese movies try and emulate. And despite his age and constant complaints about his aches and pains, he often drones to the entirety of his staff about his exercise routines.

Some of her favourite lines about his health and wellness regime included:

  1. _Working out for two hours at 5am is how I’ll make it to 190_.
  2. _Ginseng, wolfberries and sleep – the way to keep your muscles taut. Best paired together with exercise not your cancer sticks. (_ This said to her the second time he caught her on the fire escape with a cigarette in hand)
  3. _Qigong is a way to help you stop aging as quickly because if you direct your qi into the right places, it will stop your muscles from atrophying_



It continues to puzzle her whether or not he believes the, what Ed likes to call, “Paltrow-California-Lifestyle-Bojangles-Bullshit” is true. But this was a man who won the Pulitzer and who trained others who won Pulitzers, so she’s inclined to believe that its part irony but one never knows with Fu.

Just like she still doesn’t know whether he genuinely likes her or if he is cordial to her because she’s the only other Asian in the investigative journalism department. Nevertheless, Lan Fan admires the man even though there are days she cries while chain smoking over his red-scribbled comments in the margins of her drafts.

The scratching of his pen still aggravates her even after working with him for close to four years.

Lan Fan looks up from her seat on his far-too-soft leather couch. Fu’s pen continues to scratch and he pauses over a certain word , she can’t help but flinch and stare uncomfortably at the edge of the paper before looking past his shoulder.

_Damn it. Why does he have to do this._

It’s a routine by now but one she hates, like her math-clock alarm in the mornings. Fu always does this for the first draft – correcting the ideas, editing the language and word choice – forcing his subordinates sit in front of him as he marks their work. All the while, using his red Pilot ink pen.

And Lan Fan absolutely hates it. It reminds her of returned tests in grade school and the bile collecting in the back of her mouth when she realises she fucked up an answer or the whole test. She chews on her lip.

“Here.”

Her head shoots towards him and she pushes herself up from his couch to accept the stack of papers.

“Thank you.” She manages as she flips through the stapled papers. Minimal corrections, some tense changes and maybe a couple of linguistic issues, from what she can tell at least. Maybe a different frame to coalesce the story.

_That’s okay._

“It’s quite derivative though.” Fu says in his gravel like growl. And she feels her throat go tight and her hands start tingling from the cold of the air conditioning. “It’s alright for a Thursday piece but it’s quite…”

“Meh?” she offers while opening and clenching her fist, something is tightening the muscles in her hand and it hurts.

_Calm down Lan Fan, he didn’t say it was bad. Just that the ideas were bad. Ha ha. That’s worse. But at least I can write okay, I could write at Cosmopolitan. 77 goddamn fucking tips on how to give a blow job. No goddamn biggie._

_“_ Yes. that. I mean it’s nothing mind blowing.”

Lan Fan turns back to him, staring with wide eyes. She feels her teeth seize around the inside of her cheek and the almost metallic tang of blood. Fu ponderously turns in his chair to the floor to ceiling window in his office. When she looks past his should, she can see a woman typing aimlessly in the window of the adjacent building.

“-it’s alright so we’ll run it. Nothing special though”

 _Making things better with make up: 24 different gal role models for you._ She thinks sourly to herself. _This is how I get fired_. Her nails are digging half crescent moons into the tops of her thigh and it settles her a little.

“I know.” She murmurs when she finds her voice. “I’ll find something better.”

“Mm.” Fu grunts. “And make sure it’s not about the election. Everyone hates politicians already. And not about sexual scandals also – it’s boring.”

“Okay.”

“Something about companies would be nice. We haven’t had a good piece on company scandals in a while.”

“Okay.” She repeats again somewhat limply. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t notice the concerned look Fu gives her as she hurries out.

If there is one thing in her life that Lan Fan would call a ritual, it’s chain smoking after she talks to Fu. Every week, after her review with Fu, she takes a walk to the nearest fire escape and smokes two or three cigarettes while reading through all the edits.

Sometimes they are celebration cigarettes, sometimes they are commiseration cigarettes because that’s alliteration and it’s a hilariously pithy linguistic device she likes. Today, she’s not sure what sort of cigarettes they are because Fu has underlined some of the phrases she uses and ticked them but the words _derivative, nothing mind blowing_ and _Thursday piece_ continue to lazily float around in her mind. The red ticks wink conspiratorially at her. Lan Fan sighs.

She’s in the midst of lighting her cigarette when her phone begins to buzz.

“What.” She mumbles around the cigarette, flicking her lighter with a hiss.

“Goddamnit Lan. Are you smoking again?” The tinny voice of Edward Elric screeches from the receiver. For a grown man, Ed’s voice remains sharp and the speaker on her phone crackles with fuzzy static.

“Yes.” she intones.

“Those are going to kill both you and Mustang.” There’s the low creak of floorboards and quiet thumping across what sounds to be carpeted floor. “But you know, Mustang’s started vaping because he’s a fucking frat boy and those things are also going to kill him… damn do you think I could do some research on that but that’s not really my field of expertis-”

“What do you want Ed?” She patiently asks again, blowing a slow stream of smoke. 

“Oh so erh…” Ed has clearly stopped shuffling around and the pause lengthens and seems to become more uncomfortable to him as she listens.

“What do you want.”

“God Lan, don’t need to snap at me.” Ed gripes. She can hear him push the hair out of his eyes. “So Winry and I may have invited a Chinese tycoon to the wedding while drunk and he may have said yes.”

“What the fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

She meets a very amused Roy Mustang and a very flustered Edward Elric at a nondescript pub off 11th Street at 10pm.

The lights are dim and the floor is tacky against the soles of her sensible flats. It makes her frown as she taps her foot, waiting for the two. 80s disco pop blankets the bar in bright pangs from clunky speakers and almost blending with the quiet conversation around her into a mush of cacophony. It annoys her.

Mustang comes in first, tie half undone and shirt tails flapping behind him.

“Hey Lan.” He laughs, snapping off his cufflinks with a twist. _Fucking Finance Bro._ “Heard Eddie got into major fucking trouble.”

She smirks in return as he collapses into his seat. The polyester whines under his weight.

“Apparently he invited a billionaire to the wedding like you suggested.” Mustang’s eyes bug out of his head and that makes Lan Fan smile with satisfaction. “The billionaire said yes.”

_I knew before Mustang._

“Damn.” Mustang gives a low whistle and then turns his rapt attention to the plastic menu before them. He’s pushed his sleeves up into messy piles across his forearms. “Wanna order something? I haven’t eaten today.” He continues, his finger flicking down the laminated sheet.

She shakes her head. “I’m okay. Where’s Riza?”

Mustang frowns as his finger hovers over a burger. “Trial preparation. Massive money laundering. She’s going through boxes of documents in the office.” He shakes his head empathetically. “She’s not going to sleeping the entire week.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“Yea she will. I sent her some UberEats so she won’t starve.” Mustang purses his lips, his finger dancing between the burger and something with gravy on it, “but you know how she is. Riza loves her work.”

“Well yea, unlike you…” she said before snapping her jaw shut at the poor excuse of a witty comeback.

“Yea.” Roy waves a server down and points towards the burger. “It’s soul-sucking and it’s a game to make more money but we do what we have to do.”

“Sounds tiring.”

“Yea well but it’s part of the plan. Work as a finance bro, get on everyone’s good side then run as a Senator.” Shrugging his shoulders, Roy leans back into his chair, folding his hands over each other.

 _Power pose._ She can’t help but feel impressed. It’s a good stance.

“You’ve got the story to make people like you.” She reddens at his smile and continues in spite of herself. “Kid from the Bronx who makes it into Columbia, works two jobs and graduates _summa_.”

“Man Riza told you my life story didn’t she?” He smiles into the distance as she quietly nods, and suddenly jerks out of his seat. “Elric.”

Edward Elric, rumpled as ever, rushed towards them, eyes looking wild and frazzled as he jerks into an open seat.

“Which billionaire was it?” Mustang leans conspiratorially across the table.

“Goddamn, Winry is going to hate this.” Ed begins.

Lan Fan absently scratched the side of her thigh with her blunt fingernail. This was fun. She’d been embroiled in some of the weird antics of both Edward Elric and Roy Mustang but this was different, she supposed. They were not eighteen anymore and this whole billionaire thing felt odd to her – why would Ed and Winry get so anxious.

_It’s not like Bill Gates would care if you threw a crap wedding._

She stares at the ceiling and the rainbugs that buzz around the fluorescent lights.

“So. I wrote to him drunk-“

Lan Fan’s eyes narrowed. “You said Winry and you invited him – what do you mean you wrote to him.”

“Well I was acting on behalf of Winry and myself so…”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you idiot.” Mustang huffs as the server placed his burger in front of him. The gangly boy dressed in the gingham apron clearly balks. Turning up apologetically at the confused boy, Mustang gives a simpering smile. “Sorry dude, thanks.”

The boy waves him off with uncomfortable hands.

“- and I may have invited a Chinese tycoon who can only speak Chinese, as his assistant very cheerfully told me this morning…”

Ed’s eyes are growing larger and more panicked. Yet, Mustang calmly chews into his burger, flicking a stray drop of mayo off his finger.

 _Gross,_ Lan Fan frowns at the offending grout coloured blob which lands in front of her.

“… and he may also be the boss of Winry’s company.”

Mustang stops chewing and the both of them stare slack-jawed at him.

This… this was new. Lan Fan had never been in a situation like this before. This wasn’t underaged drinking college shenanigans – she’d never needed to talk to someone with a net worth above $1 billion before nor actually stood in their presence.

Ed continued. “So… Winry is freaking out and we _can’t_ just univite him because that’d be rude-”

“-but you have to make sure he’s entertained and happy.” Mustang finishes for him, somehow finding his voice.

Lan Fan can’t help but stare.

“Why us then?” she manages to croak out.

“Well,” Ed starts to fiddle with the edges of his coat. “Lan, you basically spent an entire year in China. You wrote your thesis based on 1900s Chinese sources…You.. You can talk Chinese good.”

 _Ah, yes. That’s fantastic. I talk Chinese so good. I give him good time._ Her eyes narrow as her lips curl into something distasteful.

Ed continues piteously “… please Lan, if we don’t do this – god knows what he might do. You know we’re slaves to the bourgeois.”

Mustang reaches out his fist. “Bump it” he says to Ed, as their fists collide.

“Fuck you.” She growls in irritation as the two of them shrink away from each other. “What about him?” her thumb jerks over to Mustang.

“Mustang speaks Chinese too!”

“What?” She hears Mustang spit out his burger. He runs a hand across his messy dark hair, the end of his sleeve is stained yellow with mustard. “No no Ed, I speak third-generation Chinese – I can say I want this in Chinese and I know the names of food and I can tell my aunt she’s beautiful so she can give me money during Chinese new year but not enough to have a fucking conversation.”

“God fucking damnit.” He buries his face into his hands. More clumps of blonde hair fall frailly out of his ponytail.

Lan Fan cracks her knuckles, she can feel the old groovemarks of her teeth in the side of her cheek. This is bad. This is incredibly bad.

“Does Winry know?” Her teeth grit together so hard they click.

The pile formerly known as Dr. Edward Elric shakes his head with a groan.

“Goddamnit Ed.” She mutters in resignation as she glares at him. Ed looks so contrite, so absolutely terrified about Winry so she says the only thing she can. “Fine. What do you want me to do.”

_18 July 2018_

It’s late when she gets back from meeting Ed and Mustang but she supposes that it’s the first thing she should do given that she’d likely forget about it. So she sits cross legged feet kissing each other, in front of her laptop, watching the lazy orange blinking of the battery light in the corner. Mao, the cat she pithily named out of irony, lies snoozing next to her as she gently strokes his knobby little head.

Th email sent from Ed to the Mr Yao is atrocious. It’s warm and heartfelt but absolutely atrocious. The grammar, the spelling would have killed Fu if ever he saw it. Lan Fan frowns to herself as she reads it.

_Dear mr yao_

_my wife, winry Rockbell works at your company and she loves it there. i got through grad schol because of the benefits yall have. And we are so gratful that yo hired her because without you I would not finish grad school and I would nver propose. she loves working at youre company, making robots and engineering. Thanks you for the opportunity._

_Because of that were very happy to invited you. well send you a card when we start on the invitations. Itd be god to us if you can come._

_Thanks a lot._

_Best rgds,_

_Edwad E_

The response from his assistant or whoever it was who responded to Ed is polite and yet there is a slight undercurrent of _something_ (is it amusement?) which she cannot put her finger on.

Dear Edwad,

Congratulations! Thank you for your email. Mr Yao was very happy to hear of your engagement and we are glad that our company has been able to help you just as how Winry has helped us! Winry is a lovely employee and it is wonderful to know that she’ll be married to someone who is so reverently and ardently proud of her.

Mr Yao would be honoured to attend your ceremony. However, Mr Yao does require an interpreter. We assume you will be providing one for his convenience.

We will be anxiously awaiting your invitation.

Kind Regards,

Ling **Yao** (Mr.)

Bei Luo Holdings, Ltd.

Lan Fan rolls her neck and feels the bones brittlely crack under her skin.

 _Alrighty. Let’s get to it._ She thinks as she begins to type in Chinese.

Dear Mr Yao,

My name is Lan Fan and I will be acting as Mr Yao Meng Long’s interpreter for Edward and Winry’s wedding. If there is any information that Mr Yao needs or if he wants anything (such as the wedding programme) translated, please contact me here.

Best Regards,

Shi Lan Fan

It’s curt, she knows. But given that the important Mr Yao is unlikely to be reading it himself, she figures that the effort taken to include complimentary phrases and “gong wei hua” she learnt at weekend Chinese tuition classes is unlikely to be useful.

Upon sending the email, she switches over to her work account and begins blithely replying emails to her superiors and the rest of her department. It’s close to 2am and given that Fu wakes up at 5am, it’s a perfect time to respond to emails without panicking what his response would be.

She reads an interesting idea that Sheshka is proposing about deaths of offshore oil rig workers and immediately requests to be part of the team. It’s fun she likes working for Sheshka.

 _Small dark-haired girls unite._ She thinks wryly. Sheshka was about ten years older but with her short messy bob and the thick prescription frames she wore, she reminds Lan Fan of a hapless intern bumbling about spilling coffee over stacks of random documents.

Lan Fan can’t help but smile at the thought. Next to her, Mao stretches and yawns, his white underbelly now uncovered. Idly she lightly tickles it as he twists away. 

The smile twists into a frown at the next email. It’s a topic thrown up by one of the higher-ups, George Raven. She scans the emails for details and the frown deepens the more she scrolls.

 _I can’t believe I have to join this._ She groans, flopping herself harder back on to her couch. She has to as the only other person aside from Fu who can read and write Chinese on the team.

It’s a project on Chinese investment into American and British universities. And she knows the angle – something something Chinese investment, drawn allusions to the Russian interference in the election but OH NO in the minds of our young impressionable children. Distaste coats the inside of her mouth, as she begins to type her request to join the project.

_Hi George,_

_I’d be…_

There is a red symbol lighting up next to her private account and it makes her jolt. Frowning, she clicks the tab open.

 _Wow he replies fast._ Her nose wrinkles. 

Hi Lan Fan,

Are you free this Saturday to meet for coffee? I think it might be good for us to meet and go through Mr Yao's security arrangements and whatever he needs for the day. Are you available on Saturday at 9am? 

Kind regards,

Ling Yao

Her eyes narrow as she types her response.

Dear Mr Yao

Yes that sounds fine. Would you like me to come to your offices? 

Regards,

Lan Fan

She doesn’t have to wait long. The email immediately comes as she is wrestling her hair out of its bun.

Unfortunately, our offices will be closed on Saturday for mass-cleanings. Is Old Fox Coffee alright for you? 

Lan Fan sighs. The coffeeshop is in Greenpoint, close to 45 minutes away from Brooklyn. She idly scratches Mao's ears as he peers a curious eye up at her. 

Yes that sounds good. 


	2. show me, show me, show me how you do that trick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "she knows, just knows, that the charming, tall, good-looking Mr Ling Yao is putting the same moves on her, the same way he does to girls he meets at a nice bar – whispering sweet earnest things to them, so they believe, they trust every sweet honeyed word that drips from his lip"

July 21 2018

Ling Yao is a tall man. If Lan Fan has to describe him, _lithe_ probably is the best word. There is something almost water-like in the way he moves, how he streams through the crowd around the counter and ripples into his seat. The sea blue of his long-sleeved sweater looks expensively soft and the titanium watch he wears winks at her from under the webbed stitches of his sleeve, pulled taut because of the careful balance of what seems like a far-too-scalding styrofoam cup, bandaged in brown cardboard, and an iced Americano.

“Ah, Lan Fan” he greets her like an old friend, her name slipping comfortably out almost like he has had practice saying it. She’s unsure if he notices her visibly stiffen though if he does, it’s not obvious as he keeps smiling at her under hooded eyes. Condensation pools around the iced coffee.

She immediately decides that she does not like him. The whole devilishly disheveled look, the messy almost-too long hair that is in truth artfully styled with $40 pomade, the casual but clearly cashmere sweater, the shiny watch with an artfully styled time face – it makes her stomach churn.

“Mr Yao.” She returns primly, lips pressed thin together.

Ling Yao laughs. “No, please Mr Yao is my father.” He quirks an eyebrow when her eyes widen in surprise. “Ling is fine.”

His accent is odd to her. The syllables nicely crisp flow fluid but there is something almost sonorous that lingers in the vowels, stretching them out, curling at the end of each natural phrase. It’s almost musical, rich and finely carved.

“The same Mr Yao from Bei Luo?”

“Well yes,” there is a short pause as he lifts the Styrofoam cup to his lips and begins to gulp down whatever it contains. A brown dewdrop hangs from the cup’s edge and dribbles down his chin. “Americano?”

She feels heat rise through her neck and almost swears that Ling Yao is enjoying her seeming discomfort, his Cheshire cat grin turns on its ends into shallow dimples.

“Oh. Erm… thank you.” The words come out more plaintive than she intends. And she dips her head into a quick nod.

“Girls love black coffee.”

_Don’t roll your eyes, Lan Fan. Don’t roll your eyes._

She takes a labored breath and urges herself to take a sip. It’s good - dark and deep with subtle floral notes and a slight bitter twinge towards its ends. Ling Yao watches her intently, cheek pressed against his hand. He continues to do so even as she clears her throat, looking pointedly at him.

_Fucking bastard._

“So… Mr Yao’s security arrangements?”

Something jolts into his spine and he sits up straighter, drawing himself closer to the white marble edge of the table as he leans conspiratorially towards her. It seems so unnecessarily intimate, she can’t help but to recoil. Oddly enough, that makes the corners of his mouth quirk.

She immediately fixes her gaze on to the next table – a boy with Michaelangelo curls typing away on his phone.

“Well, it’s typical. I’ll send you an email.” He gives a short deep chuckle which makes her eyes narrow. “That’s not why I asked to meet.” He finally leans back in his chair, folding his arms into a smirk.

“Then why?”

A simpering grin washes across his face, as he idly swirls the Styrofoam cup - the liquid sloshes unsteadily against its walls. “Well I wanted to meet you.” He pauses dramatically before purring in his persuasive baritone. “You seem interesting.”

_Are you fucking kidding me. Are you. Fucking. Kidding. Me._

The taste of coffee dregs on her tongue smarts bitter. And from the gritting, griping, gnashing muscles in her chest, she knows, _just knows_ , that he said it just to push her, rile her, pull on her metaphorical pigtails because that’s what _assholes_ who wear floral Armani colognes do.

Lan Fan forces her voice into _dolce._ “Are you telling me, that you made me come all the way from Brooklyn to Greenpoint,” then pushing steel into its tone, “for an email that you could have sent because you were bored?”

He continues to laze in his chair, smirking at her, and all Lan Fan wants to do is to reach over and punch the living daylights out of his eyes and maybe break his nose while she’s at it. She’s been told she has a good right hook.

_Does he think I’m interested. Is it the dress? Goddamnit._

She touches the thin cotton strap of her dress. It seems modest enough to her, navy and spaghetti strapped which sweeps into a soft flow around her calves. And yet-

_Should have worn pants._

“I have better things to do with my time.”

The statement makes him chortle with glee and there’s a gleam of something that the sunlight catches in his eye. He’s so pale he almost glows incandescent under the open light. It makes her wonder what colour he would bruise if she decides to sock him in the mouth.

“No no… Lan Fan,” he says placatingly, so mild that she’s unsure if he means it as an apology or as a correction. “That’s not why. I checked out your Linkedin.”

It makes her wonder.

It makes her ask want to ask questions.

Pointed. Curious. Angry demanding questions.

But that would let him win and it’s a point of principal for her to not let any creep who wears _cashmere_ in the middle of June and who wears fucking boat shoes and who wastes other people’s time and who stalks them on Linkedin win.

She sniffs. It’s intentional, a borrowed motif from her mother who uses it in response to anything she vaguely disagrees with. From what she recalls of the last Reunion Dinner, it is incredibly effective at making people squirm.

“And.” The question is phrased like a statement because it’s meant to be a goddamn verbal power pose. She takes a sip of coffee, punctuated.

The ice cubes at the bottom of the plastic cup grate against each other, cracking and fracturing.

_Power pose three, bitch. Your move._

For the first time in the morning, Ling Yao shifts a little restless in seat. The vinyl whines around his weight, the sound fills her with spiteful warmth.

“You’re a journalist-” he begins slowly, carefully measuring out the words.

“Yea.”

“-at the Wallstreet Journal.”

“Yea.”

Ling Yao beams at her and his shoulders loosen as his gaze dances across her- from the comfortable loose braid that flows across her back to the sensible leather sandals on her feet. It is disarming and she feels her shoulders start to slip but she forces herself to sit straighter, taller, stiller to meet his gaze.

Like an equal.

No.

Like a better.

“How would you like a story?”

Her mouth slackens. _Damnit. Power pose lost._

“What kind of story?”

* * *

She checks him out on Linkedin once she returns home. Of course, she has to – it’s her job to fact check. And if she had known who Ling Yao was and what he wanted to tell her, she would have done so earlier. _Goddamn,_ she hates being surprised. Fu has a saying for that, though obviously derivative, the hypocritical nerve, - _constant vigilance_.

Ling Yao is easy to find.

They have plenty of mutual contacts. He is somewhere about two or three degrees removed from her, which means it’s almost possible they could have met at someone’s wedding or someone’s dinner party. Alphonse Elric’s name as one of those contacts makes her mouth wrench into a knot.

Nevertheless, it’s something she’s quite thankful for as she runs her finger down his profile.

_St Paul’s in Hong Kong. Harrow in England. Then Cambridge and finally, the Harvard MBA._

“God.” She mutters to herself. So that’s where the accent comes from – a hodgepodge of far too expensive private schools across the world before mixing into the American upper class. Old world money with new world manners.

His lists of jobs and internships give her the same coiled feeling in her stomach. A couple of internships in big consulting firms that would give Roy Mustang the shriveled prune of a mouth he makes when he talks about the golfing trips his bosses go on and their yachts and their cars and summer homes and trips to the Aspens. Her mouth finds itself contorting into the same shape.

The schools, the jobs make her look uncomfortably at her ratty green couch that she’d inherited from Sheshka. Mao’s claw marks have raked neat parallel lines in cross-hatch across its bottom panels and her stomach vaults when she thinks about how comfortable Ling Yao looks, sinking into the large faux-leather armchair, like he knows he can cross his legs and watch and smirk as she fidgets because he just can.

She texts Al.

* * *

“Ling’s a good guy.” Al shrugs. Her favourite out of the two Elric brothers, Alphonse, unlike his older brother, keeps his hair short and everything around him pristinely neat. Despite the close to ten-hour shift and with 20 minutes left into his break, he still looks perpetually immaculate, his scrubs hardly mussed. It could be a side effect of the job because from what she understands doctors equals sanitizer clean orderliness, or it could be from picking up the literal debris that his hurricane of a brother strews around, she’s not sure but she leans firmly to the latter.

He smooths the bright blue of his scrubs, fiddling with the edge of his shirt. “Decent guy back in school, he’s always been very open about what he wanted to do.”

“And what was that?”

Al takes a small bite out of his sandwich, crumbs and mayo smearing across the pink of his lip. “Well,” he mumbles around the bite, “take over his father’s company.” He swallows. “Take out the older brother in the process. Typical rich family things.”

“He wants to be my source for an expose on the company.” She watches Alphonse enthusiastically slurp his black tar coffee, licking the mayo off his lip.

“He probably has a good reason.” He says. “Ling used to be very involved in Philip Brooks.” Noticing her frown, he serenely continues. “The social justice movement. He tutored a few inner city kids, you know – help them with school work, proofread applications to college. That sorta stuff.”

Lan Fan can’t help but snort. “Yes like companies with corporate social responsibility.” She rolls her eyes, shaking her head. “Come on, you can’t believe that it’s real.” She says, “the man wears a watch that practically screams Daddy paid for me to go to Harvard.”

The café they’re in is packed to the teeth with dead-eyed people in coloured scrubs. Blues, greens, pinks and purples, a veritable tumblr color palette of zombified hospital staff. She watches them past Al’s strawberry blonde head as the walking dead toddle to the counter and back to their seats.

_Why do parents want kids to be doctors?_ She wonders.

“It’s different.” Al quirks his head to the side, looking more like a golden retriever than a man of 26 should ever look, frowning with difficulty. He narrows his eyes – ochre golden, and she has to stop herself from smiling because they look so similar to his brother’s but so infinitely soothing, like he has years practice telling various people how to calm down. “Ling…” he finally says, in the tone she’s only heard when he speaks about his brother, warm and smile-filled, “tries. He tries incredibly hard. In his final year, he was tutoring 5 kids and reading 30 over college essays. That’s the sorta person he is.”

She glowers at the edge of the table. The cheap rattan mats fail to respond. She hates being convinced.

“Fine. But only because you like him.”

“Atta girl.” Al smirks and levels her an amused look. “Don’t just hate him because he’s rich.”

“ _What.”_ She bleats reflexively, watching as Al glances easily around the room, lazily waving to someone he knows in the distance. “Do you know what he told me?”

“No.”

“That someone is funneling money out of Bei Luo.” The words are hissed through crushed teeth and folded arms because goddamnit, just because Al likes him and thinks he’s a decent person, doesn’t mean that she has to. “… I mean… Why just not go to the police?”

Al’s face remains in its usual impassive doctor smile. It’s a small amiable smile that barely dents and creases his face, filled with good humor and _damnit_ why can’t he just admit that this guy is a manipulative shrew.

“This kind of stuff is Riza’s job… I mean like… why … why get some random person he Linkedin stalked?”

He clears his throat. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you’re working in the Wall Street Journal,” he says dryly, taking another bite into the whole-wheat, limp lettuce, stale tomato, miscellaneous grey pate meat club sandwich. “Maybe it’s because rich people can pay for these things to go away until journalists do something.”

“Al.” Her voice is firm, though she can hear the tin-like sharp quality it’s acquired with her frustration. “Do you know the kind of… what’s the word… flack that I could get if it comes out that my source is the second son of the family who wants to take over the damn company?

“I mean.” Her sharp look is returned with him throwing his hands up in front of him in appeasement, the smile still lingers impassive on his face, though a sharp glint runs bright through his eyes. “Bei Luo is a huge company, one of the biggest pharma companies right now” he flicks his hand towards her as she nods. “Their stock price is rising, they’re doing all this huge research an-”

“Ugh. Fair enough.”

“-isn’t this the sort of thing that the WSJ laps up.” Al pauses to take a sip of bitumen-coloured coffee, it smells so bitterly acrid it makes her flinch even as she sits across from him. “Ronan Farrow would approve.”

Lan Fan scowls harder, her face contorting into itself.

“How dare you tempt me with Ronan Farrow’s approval” She huffs, crossing her arms across her chest, she can feel her hair escaping its loose, unkempt bun, streaming down her face in haphazard lashes. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll email him.”

“Why email him?” mirth creases around Al’s eyes as he meets her gaze. “Just text him.”

“I don-”

“Well I do.” He interrupts with self-congratulatory pride, his placid smile curving to a smirk as he drums his fingers across his Styrofoam coffee cup. There’s something he wants. She knows it, can taste it in the air.

Her eyes narrow.

_Goddamnit._

* * *

(10:21 pm) _**Hi Ling, this is Lan Fan. We met this morning? I thought about what you said and it sounds big. You’re right, the public deserves to know. Could you email me all the material you said you have? I can start compiling everything so we can push it out asap.**_

(10:23 pm) _wow thats fast_

(10:24 pm) _didnt think youd say yes haha_

(10:24 pm) _i talked so some ppl and they said no_

(10:24 pm) _coz ya know… my dad_

(10:34 pm) _btw not to be weird_

(10:34 pm) _how did you get this no_

(10:38 pm) **_Alphonse_**

(10:38 pm) _you know al?_

(10:38 pm) _hes cool_

(10:39 pm) _my sister has a huge thing for him lol_

(10:39 pm) _or was it had?_

(10:39 pm) _hmm…_

(10:39 pm) _anyway i think its better if i give all the stuff to you in person_

(10:39 pm) _just in case ya know…_

(10:48 pm) **_That’s fair. Are you free on Monday at around 730pm? I should talk to my bosses to get this cleared first._**

(10:52 pm) _noice!!_

(10:53 pm) _can we get thai? i havent eaten thai in like 5 months_

(10:53 pm) _i’m craving_

(10:57 pm) _siri thai?? it looks gud_

(11:24 pm) **_Sounds good!_**

(11:27 pm) (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ

**_Seen at 11:28pm_ **

* * *

****

_July 23 2018_

Fu is wearing a fitted ma-gua jacket today. Black with intimidating silver buttons, so polished that they mirror the conference room in convex pride. His black fedora rimmed with shiny satin lies next to his copy of the Economist, the _other_ magazine which he apparently reads because _best to keep your enemies close._

She swallows. 

“So… Bei Luo,” he leads expectantly, looking over his square reading glasses, finger raised ponderously above his notes, tabbed, highlighted and paginated.

“Yes.” She rifles through her paper-clipped stack of notes and the red pink green tabs that adorn the edges, before finding her page. “Incorporated in Delaware in ’08. They’re the new _it_ pharma king – mechanical prosthesis, stem cells, painkillers.” She lists, ticking each example off her paper. “They’ve recently gotten into cystic fibrosis treatments.”

Fu strokes his moustache. “And money is just disappearing from the checking accounts?” he leans his head to the side, “why didn’t the auditors catch it?”

“Why didn’t the auditors catch the ’07 financial crisis?” is her immediate retort and she almost regrets it until she catches Fu’s mouth move slowly into a smirk.

“Touche.” The papers rustle as he flips to the next page. “The source, this boy – Ling Yao. Who is he?”

There it is, the dreaded question. She is certain he catches the hesitation flash across her face because his gaze becomes heavier and scrutinising. Daylight is streaming through the loosely drawn blinds and it surrounds Fu’s body, radiating behind him like a forcefield. It almost hurts her eyes to look at him.

“Well…” she begins, “he’s the second son of the CEO and majority sharehold-”

“No.” He interrupts and stops her, pointing his finger firmly in the air. “We are not Eonline. We are not The Mirror or The Sun or the National Inquirer. What have I always told you?”

_Broccoli makes for better stool?_ The thought makes her almost roll her eyes.

“The Wall Street Journal is not for family squabbles.” She repeats tiredly, the words are almost muscle memory to her. They are something so frequently repeated, she can hardly remember when she first heard them. Nevertheless she presses on. “But… but… erh this is big though. Bei Luo just got a defence contract.”

“Hn.”

“Press report for that is on page 14,” she says as he rifles through the stack. Winry’s face beams up at her from the page, as she stands next to a frail-looking Chinese man and a bored officer in pressed military fatigues. A heavy-looking metal arm peeks out from a glass case behind her shoulder. “The military contracted them for research into myoelectic prosthesis – that’s the erh… paragraph 4 from the bottom – where your nerves feed information into the leg and it moves autonomously. Amsteris Central also is throwing their weight behind them”

“The investment fund?”

She nods. Amsteris Central is a familiar name, mainly because Mustang shits on it, loves it, and lives in it for most of his waking hours. Bradley King, the charismatic founder, chairman and chief investment officer, is a frequent face in WSJ articles and events around the city – a charming mix of paternal affection, razor-sharp wit and decision making had catapulted him into the limelight in the 2000s when he began acquiring tech-companies post Dot-com crash. It’s something 5-drink-Mustang frequently swoons about, albeit done while scheming about how he will take over the company - in his words, “down with the king”. 

“Yes, report’s on the next page,” she nods again as Fu skims the page, his reading glasses perched precariously on the edge of his nose.

He looks up from the page and continues to frown. “So what’s the angle?”

“Erm.” She clears her throat, “I know you don’t like it but I was thinking of going the family rout-”

“And why.” he wryly interjects, eyes narrowing into slivers. It’s a look that she’s awfully familiar with and which can mean one of two possibilities – either, one, he thinks she’s on to something, or, two, he thinks she’s full of shit and she is possibly going to have the largest dressing down of her life and get subsequently fired because oh god, he’s repeated this whole no-family-drama thing so much, she can taste the derision in his statement.

“I mean succession issues are becoming a huge thing in Asia – the Chos in Korea… India’s Tata… and I mean there’s just a lot of them… and there’s a lot of… uncertainty with their finances…” Lan Fan blinks owlishly, “I think this whole story can be about how and why family-held companies… are just … unstable and it’s…” she pauses, swallowing uncomfortably. _She needs an angle any angle._ “… it’s strange that companies like Amsteris or the military don’t see it.”

“You mean foolish.”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

Fu pushes his chair out from behind the conference table, the wheels grinding against the bronzed parquet floors. “Fine,” he sighs, putting his glasses away, “but I want the angle to be distinctly on the lapses of Amsteris on the military. It’s the closest thing we can do to a reasonably serious story compared to daddy-likes-me-better.” He grimaces at the last phrase.

“So the angle is based on Amsteris Capital?” The cold of conference room is icing over her finger tips and her chest, and she finds herself choking. “And …how they screwed up?”

_Shit. Shit. Shit._ _Mustang is going to hate this._

“Yes… just get some information on the boy… what’s his name Ling? We’ll make it seem like Amsteris just missed the whole catfight…”

She nods stiffly. This is bad. This is absolutely bad. She knows that she has to write the story because she’s pitched it now, and Fu is definitely going to be expecting something given the huge exception he’s made. And yet… to charge Mustang and his colleagues for negligence seems like something too large for her to undertake. She stiffens her fingers and they immediately crack like dried twigs underfoot.

“…and for goodness sake, talk to Olivier – she probably knows Bradley or Yao Meng…whatever his name.”

A frown knots his face as she, for the fifth time in ten minutes, nods. It’s immediately followed by Fu’s warning look as it sweeps across the length of the room, to fixate on her.

“You’ll see her today.” He adds with finality. “And make sure you make Bradley King look like a fool.” He smiles mostly to himself rather than to her, “The fall of Amsteris Capital is a good headline.”

_Shit._

* * *

(4:21pm) **_Hi Mustang…_**

Lan Fan looks at the words she has typed into the Whatsapp chat and wonders how to compose the rest of the message. Somehow “hey I want to fuck over your company because it’s going to be the story that defines my twenties” does not sound appropriate over text. She immediately deletes it.

* * *

There are a couple of things you should know about Olivier Mira Armstrong, first of her name, the Companies Reporter, Queen of the Conference Room and the Men that mill about it, Khaleesi of Wall Street, Breaker of glass ceilings, Mother to cats.

One, she comes from a godforsaken place in Alaska, Briggs, where she learnt how to fish, sled, hunt and probably all-manner of things people need to know if they’re in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, stranded in the middle of Alaska. Two, she is possibly the closest thing to a bombshell that you’d ever meet. Tall, blonde, pale with the iciest blue eyes and a literal hourglass figure. In the mid 2000s, she went undercover in Miss America as the Miss Alaska and wrote an entire expose on the enterprise - the bulimia, the fake dreams of success, the drugs, the sexual harassment. Interestingly, in the midst of doing so, she broke the arm and nose and collarbone of a judge who decided he could get a little handsy during the swimsuit section of the tournament (it’s fantastic, Lan Fan has the piece saved on her hard drive). Three, she’s _the_ company reporter for the Journal – she knows companies, accounting and everyone who you need to know – like the back of her hand. Lan Fan sometimes suspects she has Jeff Bezos on speed dial, given how her articles are.

In short, she is amazing. Lan Fan wants to be her when she grows up.

“Ah, Lan Fan.” Her voice, cool, steely and commanding resounds, as she enters into the room. “Fu told me you’d be coming to see me.”

She nods and decides to close the glass door to Olivier’s office. Though smaller than Fu’s, it seems more open, though colder. There are little to no personal touches in the white empty space, with the exception of the huge painting of the Alaskan snowscape – white, wide and vast as it stretches out for what seems like miles under the watchful eye of three peaks.

“Yes, Ms Armstrong,” she says, moving automatically into an open seat. “I wanted to talk you about a piece I’m doing.”

“Amsteris capital and Bei Luo.” Olivier’s eyes turn to ice. “I know Bradley King, of course. He’s the new it-boy in town…” Her blonde hair catches and gleams under the fluorescent lights, stray silver strands glitter amidst cold gold, as they fall around to frame her face. Olivier strokes her chin thoughtfully. “Bei Luo… though… I suppose I have never met the elusive Mr Yao…”

Seated in the white box of her office, Olivier’s nickname, _Snow Queen_ becomes all the more apparent. From the air-conditioning set to freezing, allegedly to combat the New York summer, and the white expanse from the walls to the Alaskan snowscape to the glass-ice writing desk, everything around her whispers hard, unyielding and glacial. Distant and impassive like wastelands.

“Well,” Lan Fan interjects, “if it’s possible, an interview with Mr King would be nice. Just to get an idea of his relationship with Bei Luo.”

There’s a short pause, as Olivier watches her, scrutinises her, behind clasped hands. “Hmm…you know what,” she raises her head to lean her chin on them, “I’ll do you one better. There’s an event Amsteris capital is holding. I’m invited because Bradley King wants some good press. Come as my plus one-”

Lan Fan can’t help but immediately nod. “Yes Ms Armstrong.”

“-I want you reporting to me on your research,” Olivier continues, “in return I’ll introduce you to whoever you need but there is one thing I want.” She finishes with a cold smirk on her pale pink lip.

“Yes, Ms Armstrong?”

“Make Bradley look like an idiot.” Olivier’s eyes and tone remains level, staring her down in a death match of intimidation. “I want you to make him look absolutely stupid. You understand me, girl?”

“Yes, Ms Armstrong.” She can hear Olivier’s patent leather heels tapping impatiently against the carpet in muffled staccatos.

“Good. I’ll send you an invite. And for goodness sake, I’m forty not sixty-eight, stop calling me Miss..”

“Yes Mi-Olivier.” She nods again because she’s not sure if there’s anything else she can do but that. And as Olivier turns back to her computer screen, she gets up and gathers her papers. It’s the clearest dismissal she has ever had and she scuttles out of the tundra of Olivier Armstrong’s office, ever hopeful, ever terrified.

* * *

She tries again with the text message. “Hey Mustang, could you give me a call when you see this, we need to talk” sounds too ominous and “Hey Mustang, so I did something kinda bad” sounds too blasé. The last two calls she placed were left unanswered, something she’s hardly surprised by, given that Mustang’s phone is generally left on silent until the end of his working day at 11pm. She stares blankly at her phone and the list of messages she has exchanged with him – random jokes, and pieces of gossip and news of Riza’s prosecutorial successes. Guilt coils slippery in her chest. She slips her phone into her bag, she’s late to meet Ling.

* * *

Lan Fan enters the restaurant at 7:48pm. A tad later than she said she would be, which she feels immensely guilty for, but it’s closer to 15 minutes late rather than 30 – so she hopes it doesn’t offend too much.

“I’m so sorry.” She puffs as she falls into the seat. Ling looks up from his phone, a long plain of glass and metal.

He gives her a full-out grin which makes his eyes wrinkle and it almost endears her to him for a brief second. “It’s okay,” he laughs, turning his phone on its face. “I got sympathy and a free thai tea.” He points towards a half-empty glass filled with ice and thick syrupy milk tea.

“I was caught up with work and I talked to my superiors and they okay-ed the whole thing,” she says, the words rushing out of her. “It’s green-lit.”

“That’s great!” Ling laughs as he passes her a menu. “So food?”

“Oh yes.” She smooths the folds of her pants, rejecting the menu with an uncomfortable smile. “I only get one thing at Thai restaurants – so I’m ready to order.”

“Damn.” Ling mutters, flicking through the pages. His nose creases as he considers each option. Looking at him in the brief silence, she notices the sleek blue jacket thrown carelessly across the back of a chair, the messily rolled sleeves which barely muss the - what looks like Egyptian cotton – fabric of his shirt. “Tom Yam looks good. I think I’ll grab that.” He looks back up to her and there’s an earnest-eager look on his face, it makes her smile in spite of herself.

They both shoot their hands up in their air which makes Ling chuckle and her scowl. And by the luck of his freakishly long arms, he waves down the waitress, a tired-looking college student with eye bags the size of her student debt, who takes down their order with practiced ease and disinterest.

“So…” she begins, as the girl leaves with their orders, fishing a battered, dog-eared, clearly water-marked notebook and a pen from her cavernous bag. “I need to know about your family. For the piece, of course.”

“Oh,” Ling says with an easy shrug, “that’s cool – I have an older brother, Greed, and a younger sister, May. Different moms, all of us. You know how it is with rich tycoons.”

“Greed?” She frowns, finding herself fixated on the name.

“Oh shit!” Ling laughs unapologetically. “His name is Tang Sin – first word like deep pools, second word like loads of money. You know the word? Big gold character stacked on two small golds. It just sounds like greed in Chinese, ya feel me, and he’s the greediest asshole in the world so…it’s apt.”

“Okay.” She mutters, scribbling it down. _Ling Yao, 27 and suave, names his elder brother, Tang Xin Yao, for the homonym – Greed. He calls it apt._ “And your sister?”

There’s a short pause and she looks up to Ling, whose practised smile is finally dropped. “Oh she’s good. You know, she’s 23 and she’s doing her master’s degree in East Asian Languages. You know when she was fifteen she-” He says with pride.

_Close to his younger sister, whom he refers to as the “baby genius of the family”. Ling’s comfort is apparent when he speaks about her._

“-what are you writing?” Ling asks and she immediately jerks up, her pen jolts from the page.

“Oh notes,” she responds reflexively, “in case I forget something.”

Ling laughs again and it’s an earnest sound. “Nice. Mulan. You know May made me watch that movie 27 times when I was a kid, I know all the words to the movie.”

She snorts. “There is no way you know all the words to a 90 minute movie.”

“I do.” He says and there is a sly twinkle in his eye. “I’ll prove it to you one day.”

Lan Fan rolls her eyes. “Okay moving back – can you tell me about Bei Luo and your father’s business.”

“Hmm…” Ling tonelessly hums and she can hear the hustle and hubbub of the restaurant in the background, the servers rushing around and the muffled shouting of orders into the kitchen, the sizzle of oil against the black steel of the wok. “Bei Luo is really the American subsidiary of my father’s original Chinese company, Jiao Xiu-”

“Hold on,” she finds herself interrupting, eyes widening. “Are the companies named after stars?”

Ling grins in agreement. “Good catch. Most don’t notice that.” He clears his throat, pulling his tie from his collar, and grimacing. “Jiao Xiu for my father’s astrological sign and Bei Luo for Greed’s.”

“So is Bei Luo for Gr-your bother?” she questions, before immediately feeling her mouth tighten. “I’m sorry- I meant that…”

“No, no it’s fine,” Ling shrugs. “It’s family politics, I suppose,” he says frowning, hedging almost immediately, “whether I get Bei Luo depends on how well Greed manages it. The worse he does, and the better I do at my job, the more likely it is that I’ll… you know…” he trails off, looking at her knowingly.

“And what do you do?” she asks, though she already knows the answer to the question from her quick romp on his Linkedin page.

He shrugs again. “I’m at Softbank. Of course, I’m sure you’d know that,” he ends slyly, with the same wry smirk twisting his mouth.

She remains unfazed. “And why are you at Softbank rather than at Bei Luo?”

“Family politics. If Greed has me under his thumb, I’ll never prove anything,” he sighs, falling back into his chair. Stray strands of his fringe float on to his forehead as he folds his arms over his chest. “Also,” Ling quietly continues, his voice a lot lower than it was, “I guess… I just want something that’s mine. You know not the old man’s, not my brother’s but mine.”

“Okay…” she mumbles, scribbling into her notebook. _Named for the aspirational wishes of Yao Meng Long, the names Bei Luo and its parent company, Jiao Xiu, are the Chinese names of his and his eldest son’s astrological signs. My shot- Hamilton style- Ling Yao. My company._ “And can you tell me about how you found out about the money?”

“Oh… man…” he groans, smiling into a charming grimace. It almost makes her smile but she remembers how much she hates charming people, and she pushes her face into neutral resolve. “You’re definitely going to think less of me.”

Lan Fan forces a smile. She can feel it engorge on her face in duplicitous faux-earnestness and it almost disgusts her because she can taste the saccharine sweet on the tip of her tongue. “I’m sure I won’t,” she begins and upon seeing his face, somewhat discomforted and bashful, immediately drops her guard. “I’ve interviewed lawyers before. Don’t worry,” she tells him, “the ways Miramax lawyers twist facts and lie through their teeth is different.”

Ling laughs weakly. “I volunteered to act as my father’s secretary so it gets me into his good books,” he finally pulls the tie off his neck and stuffs it into the side of his jacket. “The old man can’t speak or read English so he needs a translator and I do all his email replies so I still seem involved in the family business.”

She almost laughs in spite of herself because this is the most quintessentially Taiwanese 100-episode sort of family drama her mother loves to watch, and it’s almost inconceivable that this is manifesting in real life. Ling continues to watch her slowly, still lounging in his seat. His long ease, clearly manufactured and uncomfortably stiff.

“That’s not too bad,” she reassures him. “It’s a reasonable plan.”

“So when I was responding to a couple of emails of his, I went through a couple of balance sheets which looked fishy to me and I passed it on to a buddy of mine, who went through them and confirmed that there was a couple of ten millions missing.” Ling says in a quick exhale, eyes angry cold steel. “It’s insane, these balance sheets and I don’t think the old-man knows how much money is gone because you know… he’s just about retired. I just… wow…”

She looks at him pointedly but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“… I don’t believe Greed did that… you know…” he finishes slowly, before taking a sip of his milk tea, leaving the ice cubes to jingle. “I didn’t think he’d do that to the old-man.”

Lan Fan nods and begins a new sentence. _The balance sheets, the numbers, they didn’t add up. Tens of millions of company funds, disappeared without a trace. Greed – money laundering? But what for? Bei Luo is his in a few years. Father didn’t notice, almost fully retired._

“Lan Fan…” Ling says and she looks up to meet his brown eyes, which look so warm and so tired, that for a second she almost forgets that this is the too-charming Wallstreet asshole that she means to dislike as a point of principle. “I just… don’t know what’s going on…”

She almost wants to tell him that she believes him but she doesn’t. This is another feuding family story, she can feel it in her bones and she knows, just knows, that the charming, tall, good-looking Mr Ling Yao is putting the same moves on her, the same way he does to girls he meets at a nice bar – whispering sweet earnest things to them, so they believe, they trust every sweet honeyed word that drips from his lip.

So she nods. It’s almost too sharp to be sympathetic but it’s meant to convey some sort of professional understanding. Ling smiles at the gesture but he looks almost too wistful for it, hands slack and folded into his lap, gazing languidly at her and she feels her stomach tighten and churn.


End file.
